I Beneath A Rougher Sea
by SilverDarkHorse
Summary: It is the stars and the moon and the seas and the storms. It is ordained, this source of continuity, of comfort. It is the order of the world. Regulus believed in order, once. Stars came first, of course, and he loved them best. Still loves them best, if he is honest with himself. COMPLETE.


But I Beneath A Rougher Sea

_Written for:_

_**The Incest Competition**__ by __**Impurest of Hearts:**__ Sirius/Regulus._

_**For Those With A Darker Mind Competition**__ by __**berryandlisa:**__ Depressed!Regulus._

_**The Worlds Challenge**__ by __**TrisanaChandler13:**__ Khabranth – Write about morality._

* * *

><p><em>But I beneath a rougher sea,<em>

_And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he._

_- William Cowper, The Castaway._

* * *

><p><em>It is the stars and the moon and the seas and the storms. It is ordained, this source of continuity, of comfort. It is the order of the world. Regulus believed in order, once. Once, when he was young – younger, for in the measures of worldliness he is still a fledgling – and innocent, a long, long time ago. Almost as long ago as the birth of those once-beloved stars, or so he feels. <em>

_Stars came first, of course, and he loved them best. Still loves them best, if he is honest with himself. But then, he rarely is, for it leaves a lingering bitterness in the hollows of his throat that he cannot bear. But yet, occasionally, in the dead of night, when the dark drapes screen the world outside, he lies in bed and lets his mind's eye wonder…_

The night is clear, and the air is sparkling, sweet and rich, as though it has drunk of the same champagne the adults shared in the vestibule below. Regulus climbs up to the window seat, and sits beside his older brother, feet dangling a foot above the floor.

"What are you looking at, Sirius?" He is all of five years old; naiveté and curious.

Sirius turns. He smiles – _that_ smile. "Looking at the stars," he says. "Aren't they beautiful, Reggie?"

Regulus turns his face to the glass and presses his nose against the window. His breath fogs up the pane. "I can't see," he complains, squinting.

Sirius stands suddenly, and Regulus, dislodged from his position, lurches mightily. Sirius pays no heed to this. "Come," he says, eyes bright with excitement, and throwing open the window, clambers outside. "Come _on,_ Regulus," he says again.

Regulus stares owlishly, wide-eyed, tendrils of fear and that forbidden excitement snaking slowly around his heart. "I – I'll fall," he falters, looking up at Sirius.

Sirius smile does not grow dim. "I'll help you," he says, and offers his arm. Regulus does not argue. He extends his own, and grips the warm palm with sweaty fingers, clinging with a grip whose ghost he still can sense.

The night air is cold, and Regulus shivers in his thin pyjamas. Sirius shrugs off his coat and wraps it around Regulus. They sit, right at the end of the balustrade, and raise their eyes to the skies once more. The material of the coat is thick and warm, but something cold trickles down Regulus' spine. He snuggles in closer, and feels the gooseflesh on his arms die down as Sirius' comforting heat envelopes him.

"See up, there, Regulus?" Sirius says, pointing towards the north, "that's me – _Sirius_ – the Dog Star." It can be seen clearly, appearing much closer than it is, a mirage, an illusion, almost. It shines, brightly, with a vivid, determined luminosity that overshadows all the other stars in its wake.

Regulus' hand twitches to shade his eyes, but he does not. Instead, he says, "it's very bright, Sirius."

"Yeah, yeah, it is," says Sirius. He grins and stares, fascinated. "Don't you find it _irresistible?"_

Regulus agrees, and slides, ever so slowly, closer to his brother.

"What about me?" Regulus asks. "I'm a star, too, aren't I?"

Sirius points to another star, a smaller one, set just outside the shimmering circle of Sirius. "That's Regulus. It's very bright too, though Sirius is the brightest. It's closer to earth though, so sometimes it's overshadowed by the moon." It is closer to earth, but does not look so. Its brightness does not bear the same joyful vividness of Sirius, but is pearlescent and seemingly fragile.

Regulus cocks his head to the side. "What does it mean, Regulus? It has a meaning too, doesn't it?"

"It means Little King," Sirius says. He bows with a flourish, and slips his hand around Regulus' waist. "At your service, your majesty."

Regulus laughs and traces the constellation with his finger. "They're so pretty," he says wistfully. "I wish we could call them down from the sky."

"They'll be up there for eternity," Sirius says. "If we got them down here, we'd have to share them with everyone. This way, we can keep them to ourselves forever." He turns and smiles, eyes alight.

Regulus smiles back. "Forever," he agrees, and the place where his brother's hand lies on his back tingles.

* * *

><p><em>Second came the moon, and Regulus thinks it is the element of the order he likes the least. Or dislikes the most, for his tolerance for this decree is born out of necessity and helplessness, and there is nothing he likes about it. It's closer to earth though, so sometimes it's overshadowed by the moon…the puny moon, he thinks, turning over in his bed, away from the slim sliver of light that braves the darkened drapes and alights upon his pillow, the puny moon, most non-luminous of elements…<em>

"I have friends," says Sirius, eyes softly glowing, standing before the hearth in his room, looking thunderstruck – or, Regulus corrects himself, wonderstruck. "Friends, Reggie…imagine that!"

A small, sharp knife cleaves Regulus' intestine. "I thought I was your friend," he says. He means it to sound cold, aloof, but it comes out wary, quivery, the consonants too long and the vowels too short. He moistens his lips and hopes his brother does not notice.

He is in luck. Sirius is not paying attention to the cadence of his tone. Not in luck, then, for there was a time when Sirius could – and would – pick up every subtle inflection in his voice. "Yeah, yeah, Reg. I meant real friends…my age and all that."

Regulus stands as tall as his slight, ten year old frame will allow. "I'm ten," he says, and is relieved to hear his voice tremble no longer; it is strengthened by the soft undertones of irritation. "I'm almost your age."

"No you aren't," Sirius corrects, almost pedantically. "You're two years younger than me. That's a big gap."

Regulus tries to scowl, brows lowering and eyes storming, but his chin wobbles in spite of himself. He turns away, seeking to disallow the flickering light of the harsh flames from illuminating the distress upon his face, but the movement is too sharp, too sudden, and calls Sirius' attention upon him.

"Hey now," says Sirius, and Regulus hears the muted accent of regret in his voice. "I didn't mean you're not my friend…you're not, I mean, but no, wait…I meant, you're something better – you're my brother."

_Ah. And therein lies the problem._

Regulus dabs discreetly at his eyes, and Sirius turns his eyes to the fire, seemingly unnoticing of the moment of weakness. Regulus knows that Sirius knows, and he is grateful for the reprieve.

"Tell me about your…friends," Regulus says, when he has recovered the iron self-control of which he is so proud, but a slight hint of bitterness seeps through, still.

"They're brilliant," Sirius breathes, and the reverence in his voice is intolerable to Regulus. "There's James – he's my best friend, and then there's Remus, and Peter, they're really good friends too. And then there are the girls – they're all right, when you get past the snootiness – Marly, and Mary and Gayatri."

Regulus swallows, and prays his spittle will lodge in his throat and choke him. "And what do you all do?" He asks.

"We go up onto the Astronomy Tower and watch the stars," Sirius says. "James and Remus and Peter and I. I like watching the moon best, actually, but sometimes Remus doesn't like it. He says though it looks nice and calm, it's got more power than any mortal can dream of, power for great destruction and evil. "

The knife in his intestine twists again, and Regulus feels a sharp punch adding to his injuries. "That was our plan," he says, and indeed, he does sound strangled.

Sirius waves a dismissive hand, but guilt shadows his eyes. "Ah well, it wasn't exclusive to us," he mutters, but puts a warm hand on Regulus' shoulder just the same. It burns through the velvet of his robes, and accumulates in a larval pool at his wrists, but Regulus does not shake it off.

"What else did you do?" Asks he, and hopes his breaths will always be not so short.

Sirius contemplates him gravely, eyes darkening just a shade. "I ah…learned to kiss," he says, and Regulus is certain his breathing has stopped.

"How?" he croaks.

"Like this," says Sirius, and catches him by the shoulder and presses a kiss to the very edge of his lips.

It lasts a fraction of a second, perhaps, but to Regulus, it is an eternity. "Gross," Sirius says, drawing away and wiping his mouth exaggeratedly on his robes, but the shadow of a smirk lurks about his lips.

Regulus tries to match the smirk, but it comes out twisted; his lips cannot move through the burn of ice surrounding them, just as he himself is rooted to the spot, drowning in a sea of cold and moonlight and friends and brothers, the ever-certain sense of order being slowly siphoned away from him.

* * *

><p><em>Regulus likes the seas, indeed, they are second only to the stars. But as oft he pretends there are no stars, or that they do not affect him as profoundly as they do, he tells himself that the seas are the best. By this time, he is beginning to realize that there is no semblance of order to anything in this world. Occasionally some things would have an appearance of order, but it is a lie, a screen of deceit. Seas are the most palatable, enjoyable even, both the high seas, with its unpredictable and exhilarating tides and turns, and the calm, smooth flow of the lagoon pools. When sleeps eludes him, as it does almost each night, he closes his eyes and imagines before him either of the two seas, but on the whole, he thinks he likes the calm waters best…<em>

"And the wave came bearing down; all still waters eddied at the turn,

I could not hear above the roar, my lungs not stand the burn,

Drenched in molten ice, I despaired to see the shore,

But the gods looked not on me; my grave the deepest ocean floor."

Sirius raises his eyes from the book, and smiles – _that_ smile. Dusk fades fast beyond the window, and the flames in the fireplace throw Sirius' ever-lengthening hair into sharp relief, and rests on the rise of his emerging cheekbones and the deepest grey of his eyes. Regulus feels his heartbeat falter, and looks away.

Sirius, now once more attuned to every slight motion, thought and word that leaves his brother, raises an elegant eyebrow. "Well, Little King?" He asks – drawls – "what do you think of that fancy verse?"

Regulus snorts, and is pleased to discover it does not sound forced, though he is less pleased about the apple blossom redness now blooming in his cheeks. "Some pretentious lines of some pretentious old fogey," he says. "Who is this chap, anyway?"

Sirius looks down at the book. "Matthew James Cook-Broad, born 1784." He smirks; there are now lines at the corners of his lips. "I thought his poem was rather good, why in Merlin's name you should think he is pretentious I do not know."

"All that rot about calm waters pitching him to the ocean floor," Regulus answered, raising his own rather less defined brow. "Everybody knows calm water isn't dangerous."

Sirius leans forward, scraping the chair lightly along the flagstone floor as he does so. "Are you quite sure of that, little brother?" asks he, and Regulus feels the small pool of irritation that inhabits his stomach boil and overflow. "I mean – ever heard of the saying 'still waters run deep'?"

Regulus laughs, and shivers run up his spine when Sirius lips turn up in the genuine smile that is a rare sight these days. "Sounds like something Bella would say, in reference to herself," he says, lightly.

Sirius laughs then too, and Regulus starts in surprise despite his growing delight, for there is something deeper, darker, a rich, vivid quality in the timbre of that familiar bark. "Sounds like something Bella'd say if she knew I was reading you Muggle poetry," Sirius says with a grin, and Regulus feels his pulse slow down to normal. "After she hexes me, of course."

A rush of blood is carried to Regulus' legs, and he stands, without realizing what he is doing.

"Reggie? What are you doing? Reggie?"

Regulus crosses the short stretch of room, and settles down on the floor, in front of Sirius' chair, snuggled against his legs. "This is much more comfortable, and I can give Bella what for much better from here, if she decides to hex you," he says.

Sirius laughs and runs a hand through Regulus' hair. The back of his neck prickles, and he tries to ignore the subtle stirring in his stomach. He cannot look up at his brother. Instead, he stares at the dimming fire.

"Bella notwithstanding, there were times when I wished I had some calm waters to drown myself in."

Regulus' head jerks up at his brother's tone, fraught with guilt and grief as it is. He cannot help himself; their eyes meet, his own light grey probing the darker, wishing, and willing, to join the other in its anguish.

Regulus reaches up, and takes hold of the hand Sirius has not removed from his hair. It is a gentle grip, but a strong one. "What happened?" He whispers. He feels Sirius shudder, and his eyes close off.

Regulus holds his breath.

The moment passes, and the shutters lift. "I'm a murderer," Sirius croaks. His eyes well up. "I almost killed Moony, Regulus." He tries to twist his arm away, but Regulus holds on tightly.

_How,_ is what first Regulus thinks, but he tramples down this inopportune curiosity. "You're not a murderer," he whispers instead. "He's fine, isn't he? You didn't kill him at all." He turns his head and presses a swift kiss to the inside of Sirius' wrist.

Again, Sirius tries to pull away, and again, Regulus make him desist. "Don't," Sirius mutters. "This is wrong. You're my brother, don't do this." But he does not pull so hard now, and Regulus can feel the hastening throb of his brother's pulse beneath his lips.

He kisses again, moving slightly upward now. "You're not a murderer," he murmurs. "You're a good friend."

Sirius looks away. "They don't talk to me anymore…but I love them so," he croaks.

_Not as much as I love you._

"I'm here for you, even if they aren't," he says, and presses a third kiss, light and fleet, to Sirius' temple. There is a pause, a low, hissed intake of breath, and then at last, those beloved arms encircle him.

If he could choose a fragment of time to freeze and hold still forever, it would be this, this infinitesimal moment of raging fires and warmth and what he assures himself is love. And he asks himself how this is in any way connected to calm waters, which should be the order of the day, but this is good, so he does not dare question it for too long.

Presently, he raises his head from its resting place at Sirius' pulse-point. "Still think this is wrong?" He ventures. Sirius hesitates, then chuckles weakly.

"Never mind," Regulus says. "What did you say again about still waters?"

This time, Sirius' smile blooms full against his lips.

* * *

><p><em>It is not too much later when Regulus learns that indeed, still waters run deep and seas experience their most rich and resonating calm before the deadliest storms. And when the storm comes, it is such a one that takes no prisoners, spares no innocents. It does not discriminate, leading to destruction every mortal in its path. He does not know if survival is a possibility; a well-defined sense of sense of self-preservation drives him onward, clinging to any piece of driftwood he may happen across. He does not know if anyone else has survived, he looks about him, but he cannot see. And in the night, when sleep is elusive, and the calm water simulations give way to the inevitable storms, he tosses and turns, hears the roar of the wind echo mightily in his ears, and watches, again and again, everything around him break down, stripped of all order, and descend into chaos…<em>

Regulus sees the dark clouds lowering moments before it happens. It is a pity he cannot immediately recognize the forthcoming calamity, but then, he is not on his guard, for this is still calm waters, after all.

Bellatrix pops the question at dinner, casually, over a glass of sparkling champagne. It is not "marry me", as Regulus half expected, but "we want you to join Lord Voldemort."

A muscle twitches in Sirius' jaw, and Regulus can see the storm clouds reflected in his eyes. Sirius simply answers, "No."

Then the storm breaks.

It whirls for a solid two hours, leaving in its wake a destroyed canvas family tree with one small name burned out, a hysterical mother, an indifferent father, a furious Bellatrix, and three deep, bleeding gashes on Sirius' left cheek.

Regulus opens Sirius' door to find him packing. "Wh – what are you doing?" He asks, and cringes, out of habit, when panic seeps through in his tones.

"I'm leaving," Sirius replies evenly. He does not even turn around, though the tautening of the muscles in his neck reveal that he has heard the change in his brother's voice.

"Why? It's just a row – surely you don't really want to leave?" Panic is overflowing in his chest.

"I'm never going to join Voldemort. It's not just a row." Sirius' eyes are alight with a strange glow. It both frightens and excites Regulus, and he takes a step closer, is spite of himself. "It's a battle now, a fight between good and evil. And I'm on the good side, Regulus. I've chosen my side."

"I don't want you to leave," Regulus says, and cringes at the plea that reaches even his distressed ears.

Sirius straightens up, slowly. "I don't particularly want to leave you either," he says. "But I've got to go."

"Stay for me," Regulus murmurs, and reaches out to run his fingers through Sirius' hair. He jumps back as though electrocuted when Sirius shakes his arm off.

"No," Sirius says roughly. "We can't do this any longer. We're brothers. It's not right."

Regulus feels his heartbeat quicken, and closes his eyes, struggling to hold on to the iron self-control that is his boon on these occasions. "But…we've done it for some time. It…it doesn't feel wrong."

There is a silence.

Regulus opens his eyes. "It felt wrong to you, then?"

Sirius turns away, and for the first time, Regulus feels a tiny thrill of triumph course through him, for the other boy cannot meet his eyes. "I was confused," Sirius admits. "I – I didn't know…sometimes it feels wrong…but sometimes it doesn't…"

"Stay and find out," Regulus suggests.

"No."

"_Please."_

"I can't, Reggie."

"I – I thought you loved me," Regulus says quietly. He moves closer; his breath ghosts down Sirius' neck, and he sees the goose bumps rise. His body stiffens as Regulus moves into the curve beneath his arm. Regulus fits perfectly there, it is a safe haven made for him.

"I did – I do. But I have to leave. Please don't force me, Regulus."

Regulus leans against the firm chest, counting every heaving breath. A hand ghosts over his hair, then falls away. "No," says Sirius firmly, and turns back to his suitcase.

"You don't love me" – begins Regulus, and reaches out an arm, again. It is a mistake. His fingers have barely touched the gashes on Sirius cheek, when he is thrust aside abruptly.

The push has greater force than his slender form can bear. He goes flying across the room, and slams into the fender of the fireplace. Something damp trickles down his temple, and white spots flicker on the peripheries of his vision.

"Goodbye, Regulus," Sirius says.

The door slams.

Regulus raises his hand to his head. Blood, rich and red from the crack on his head mixes with the blood from his brother's cheek.

And then, Regulus realizes this is not the death of the storm. It is the eye, the very core.

_Regulus survives, or so he assumes survival to be. It is a living death, he thinks, on occasion. Not all together intolerable, this half-life, but it is disconcerting, nevertheless, to know that there once was a better one. _

_He sees his brother still, speaks to him, smiles at him, but can never meet his eyes nor hear the words from his lips without pain to himself. It has not melted to a tame, frank affection as he had in innocence once thought it would, it continues to be a full-blown gale, roaring inside him; a burgeoning tide, that swells and comes forth, only to be thrust down again and again, never fully realised, but very much alive, foaming, twisting, thriving, beneath the surface of his calm._

_Fin._

* * *

><p><em>Disclaimer: There is no actual poet called Matthew James Cook-Broad. But you knew that already, didn't you? Ten wickets and two double centuries to anyone who correctly guesses his origins...<em>

Well, that was…a challenge to write...not quite sure what I think of it myself. Reviews are always appreciated.

If any of you like Marauder-era stories, I've got a novel called Esto Perpetua on my profile page that you might like to read. It's not a shipping fic, but a plot and character driven story.


End file.
